


Fuckweasel

by theravcnboys



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: I Tried, M/M, roseph, rovinsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:01:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theravcnboys/pseuds/theravcnboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's play a game called Pretend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuckweasel

Ronan woke up with a start and looked wildly around, realizing — feeling — that he wasn't in his room in Monmouth, and told himself this wouldn't be good.

He could already tell this wasn't a good morning before he even looked at the nightstand where his hand almost slipped as the remains of coke covered his fingers, or even before he spotted the white-rimmed glasses hanging on the bedpost just above him. He could already tell it wasn't a good-goddamned-morning exactly when he heard Kavinsky — with nothing but a towel on — got out of the shower singing "I am your worst, I am your worst nightmare" to the tune of Novocaine, which coincidentally what he might just had (there's no telling, really.) And damn right, Ronan wondered how true Kavinsky knew what he is to him. Just as he was readying himself to stand, he was struck with a sudden pain in his temples. That, and the fact that he was stripped down to his boxers. He held his head before sinking down the sheets again.

"Oh, fuck me," he muttered, expressing his utter distress.

"Pleasure's all mine." Kavinsky replied with a mock-curtsy, before putting his hand on his chin as if thinking. "Actually, no. As I recall, you had your fair share of it last night— "

Ronan stood up, cutting him off, before he could even say anything else. He slammed Kavinsky to the nearest wall, which was a little brutal, even for Ronan, but he's pissed as hell and he has nothing else to hold onto to confront him except for the towel, and that wasn't even an option he's considering. "What the hell are you talking about?" Kavinsky held both of his hands up, suggesting Ronan to calm down.

"Easy there, princess." And Ronan, knowing Kavinsky, didn't. "I get that you're mad. God, aren't all girls who lose their virginity are?" He shoved Ronan away before lighting a smoke, puffing a cloud, and adding, "But also like the other girls, you gotta admit that it really was hot. Hella."

If Kavinsky was trying to ease the situation, he's not really achieving the desired outcome. But Ronan had no energy to be raged. For the love of fuck, he's been raging for about half of his life when will it even end? But no, that wasn't what Ronan was too tired to feel. He had no energy to convert his rage to pointless, physically-damaging actions. He had no energy to thrash Kavinsky. And it takes one Ronan Lynch a great deal of having no energy to even be too exhausted to not hit one Joseph Kavinsky so Ronan assumed he really had no energy at all. In the end, all he managed to say to Kavinsky, who was already on his feet putting on one of those ridiculous low-strung jeans of his, was "Where are my things?"

Kavinsky turned to look at him with his nearly finished smoke still between his lips, "God, can't you wait until the wedding before wanting a piece of me again, sweetheart?" And after finishing, added, "So what now, your ass eager to get back to Daddy?"

And then there was blood on Ronan's knuckles, and Kavinsky staggering to get back to his feet while wiping a hand to his lips, which were now covered with blood. So much for having no energy at all. Ronan's hand was already up in the air for another swing when the pain shot again in his temples, more mind-wrecking than ever.  
Kavinsky sat straight up and leaned on the wall, with hands on his eyes. And laughed. "Must be the coke."

Ronan, a hand on his head, darted his eyes at him and barked back, "YOU. GAVE. ME. COKE." Un-fucking-believable. Actually, Ronan thought, no. The idea was so obvious all Ronan could do was give out a chuckle. Of course, he did.

"As much as I would want to believe you, seeing that I really had a great time looking at myself in the mirror today," Kavinsky started, "You took it yourself."

And that was when an on-cue laugh came from Ronan. A pain-in-my-fucking-head-blocking, I-think-I-did-something-horrible, what-will-Gansey-even-say laugh that even Kavinsky was weirded out. Ronan was left almost lifeless on the ground, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.

"Sure thing, dickhead. Of course, I did." The idea was so far-fetched from reality that Ronan couldn't imagine it happening.

Just when he was helping himself stand up, he felt a sharp sting in his jaw that sent his body flying to the bed. He saw Kavinsky on top of him, and felt his hand wrapped around his neck, barely choking him. "Listen, you fuckweasel." He was forced to look at him, "As much as I would want to lay in bed cuddling all day, if you insist on knowing the truth, I'll give it to you."

Kavinsky gave him a final shove before reaching his pocket to light another one. "You came here drunk as ever, crying your ass out about how Dick likes girls and Adam does, too, and how even Noah probably does, too." He gave out a snicker before blowing the smoke in front of Ronan and continuing, "And that fucker Proko, being the damned dickwad that he is, slipped you a fucking roofie. And the next thing I know, everyone in the party — mind you, my party — was calling out for me to stop you since you were about to destroy, say what, everything?!

"And then you saw me," Kavinsky gave out a suppressed amusement before he continued, "When you saw me, you leaped at me like the deranged teenage girl that you are and I had to scream 'The fuck you lookin' at?' to every single person we pass by since you were so eager with nippin' every single bit of my neck. And then you know what happened?"

A groan of utter despair escaped Ronan. No more, he thought, there's only so much of this I can take. Despite of his reaction, a hot sensation crept up until it reached his face and he tried hard to shove it down to wherever the hell it came from.

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, baby." Kavinsky said, grinning, "Let's keep this our secret, okay, but you were fantastic. And nevermind my question, I was going to tell you anyway. Let me tell you now what happened next: We fucked. We didn't 'make love' or — or — 'give in'. We had sex. And it was dirty as fuck, you hear me? And you know what's more? You loved every. Single. Fucking. Bit."

Ronan wanted to burn the house down. His head was throbbing and he wanted to burn the house down and he wanted to thrash everything in this goddamned room and he wanted everything to be untrue. He wanted to punch everyone in their goddamned faces and he wanted it all be over. He wanted to get away from Monmouth but he couldn't and he wanted to break ties with Gansey — stupid, perfect Gansey — and that wonderful boy, Adam, and that stupid ghost boy, and that one fucking lamp, Blue. He wanted to break everything and anything and he wanted to break this boy's stupid face and rip the grin out of it and he wanted to taste him.

And he did.

And he tasted like the proper fucker that he was. He was sweet and spicy and just the right amount of fucked up. He tasted like freedom and cigarettes and breaking rules and drag nights filled with fast cars and molotov cocktails and a hundred Mitsubishis and a dozen fake licenses and just the two of them. He tasted like everything he denied himself all this time and it was bliss.

It was so surreal, it was like one of those little things he formed in his mind. Never in his wildest

 

* * *

  
Ronan woke up with a start and looked wildly around, realizing — feeling — that he was in his room in Monmouth, and told himself that what he just dreamt of wasn't good.  
He told it to himself a lot of times, like a mantra, but however how many times he did, he still had this hole inside his gut that only he knew the cause of. He could lie to Gansey. Or Adam. Or Noah. Or Blue. Hell, he could lie to Kavinsky. But not to himself. And he couldn't even lie in the first place. He hated himself for wanting, but then again, it won't be happening now. He continued to rub a fist in his eye. His head hurt.

"Oh, fuck me," he muttered, expressing his utter distress.

"Gosh, stop having wet dreams about me when I'm just here will you, Lynch?" He looked immediately and there he was smoking, with his stupid grin, and ridiculous white-rimmed glasses, and disgusting low-strung jeans, and that slender, white-as-sheet body that reeks of daddy issues and violence. "'Morning to you too, princess."

  
And Ronan couldn't ask for more.


End file.
